When a girl has been dumped, who better to cheer her up than New York’s Finest and Bravest?I felt dejected over Alex for precisely 45 minutes – until I got an invitation to a night of speed dating featuring the hottest single firefighters and cops in the city, hand-picked from every firehouse and precinct in town.

Alex who?

Organized by a company called Hurry Dates, the event brought about 50 women to the TriBeCa bar El Teddy’s, all of them dressed to the nines, chatting and giggling and rabid with excitement.

And our fearless heroes?

Dressed mostly in buttoned-down shirts and jeans, they were huddled in small groups, eyeing the women nervously like a herd of gazelles being circled by slathering cheetahs.

In speed dating, you sit opposite each guy for three minutes, chat frantically, then circle “yes” or “no” for each one on a score card, depending on whether you want to see them again.

So what do you say to a fireman whose attention you get for three minutes?

Should I ask him to come install a smoke alarm in my bedroom? Should I admit I’ve always wanted to slide down a fireman’s pole?

Then there was the Sept. 11 issue. Would I unthinkingly blurt out something insensitive like “Been to any big fires recently?”

“OK!” shouted our host. “Round One is about to begin!” The women rushed toward long tables set up especially for the occasion. I counted two females to every guy.

“First, a big cheer to our city’s hunky heroes!” cried the hostess.

The women shrieked and waved their score cards. Our hunky heroes looked like they were ready to make a run for the door.

Noting the imbalance of women to men, the host hollered, “Don’t worry! We’ve got some firefighters on their way from Brooklyn for the second round.”

Seeing a sea of anxious faces, she added: “If not, I’m sure these guys will have the stamina to double up.”

I decided to go second, convinced that the Brooklyn boys were the hottest in the city.

The first round started, with pairs launching themselves into frenzied conversations. Meanwhile, I stood off to the side. Where were those Brooklyn lads?

Then a tall, broad guy appeared at the door. I figured he was the first of the outer borough batch. Next came a really sexy one – an Africa-American stud muffin with smiling eyes.

Why wait, I thought. I sidled over.

“Hey, there,” I said. “I’m glad I took the gamble and waited for the second round!”

He looked at me blankly.

“I’m not staying,” he announced. “Anyway, I’m gay.”

OK, then. Not the answer I was anticipating.

Trying to recover my cool, I turned to the other one, whose name was Victor.

“So, what are the best questions to ask a fireman?” I inquired.

“Ask him how much pressure he can take in his hose,” he suggested. “I’ll be asking women if they want to get a grip on my nozzle,” he said, gleefully warming up to the theme.

I couldn’t suppress a snigger, but I decided to opt for the more romantic approach. Something like, “If you found me in a burning building, how would you rescue me?”

Finally, it was our time. The Brooklyn firefighters had not showed up, but the earlier group, looking much more relaxed after several drinks, seemed happy to go again.

My first specimen sat down.

“Soooo,” I began seductively. “How would you rescue me from a fire?”

“I’m a cop,” he replied.

“Oh, sorry,” I stammered. “Er, so how would you rescue me from – a pickpocket!”

Somehow, the question didn’t have quiet the same ring to it. The cop started talking about how Times Square had become more dangerous.

Suddenly, our three minutes were up. My next guy sat down.

“Fireman or cop?” I asked.

“Firefighter!” he replied. “I’m getting good at these questions.”

“Hi. I’m Bridget. So, how would you rescue me from a fire?”

“I’d probably drag you out by your ankles,” he said flatly. “That’s how we take most people out.”

Where was the romance?!?

“Oh, right . . . cool, I guess,” I said. “I mean, it’s not cool to be in a fire – in any sense of the word.”

A parade of others passed through. Finally, a swaggering fireman sat down, his muscles straining under a long black T-shirt.

I fired off all my questions again. “You’re pretty attractive,” he interrupted. “Problem is you ask waaaay too many questions.”

“Story of my life,” I replied. “So how about a real date?”

“I’m only doing this for charity,” he confessed. “Besides, you work for The Post and you might write about me.”